An Answer To A Love-Letter, In Verse

Is it to me this sad lamenting strain? Are Heaven's choicest gifts bestow'd in vain? A plenteous fortune and a beauteous bride, Your love rewarded, and content your pride; Yet, leaving her, 'tis me that you pursue, Without one single charm -- but being new. How vile is man! How I detest the ways Of covert falsehood and designing praise! As tasteless, easier happiness you slight, Ruin your joy, and mischief your delight. Why should poor pug (the mimic of your kind) Wear a rough chain, and be to box confin'd? Some cup, perhaps, he breaks, or tears ...